Godly Biddings of a Foolish Novelst

Welcome, Saints and Populists,

to my godless gathering.

Been waiting for the Antichrist

and I'm now out of suffering.

The battlefield is all but ready,

set to beat him and be done

waste up every lonely century

It's me, my own Armageddon.

Why's the salt so unsavoury?

Can't Souls hide on that rocky hill?

But, why are they still wavering?

It's not a Shroud! - a simple quilt.

Why's this Last one not yet First,

but leads the packs of pure stupidity?

And why is there this bloody thirst

for dead and buried immortality?

God, have no faith in peons eager,

who live when gods do not exist,

and then they write the measly, meagre

Godly Biddings of a foolish novelist.